Forgiveness
by Jazz Funeral
Summary: Painful sex. BillAmsterdam slash. Work in progress!


He was not one to complain about odor, but the pungent wall of stench that hit him when he stumbled through the low doorway was enough to make him gag. The air was thick and heavy; the only light was the afternoon sun, shining dimly through the small window, which was coated with a blanket of scum. Pigs, many of them, hung around the room, still fresh from the kill and dripping blood, like tiny red rubies hitting the wooden flooring constantly without rhythm. A small table sat in the corner, along with a roughly made chair.

Had he been here before? Amsterdam's eyes searched over the place for something, anything at all, that he might recognize. The walls were bare, save for a partially torn American flag pinned up on the rough wooden walls.

He had wandered through the Points for the first time in 16 years today, clear blue eyes taking in everything, from the beggar woman at his feet, speaking frantically in some foreign language, to the small boys running amok in the streets, smashing windows and picking pockets. Irish music was being played over on the street corner, but was cut off suddenly when a group of men approached the band and began to beat them viciously with clubs.

Those were the first things he saw as he entered the Five Points. He had just been released from Hellgate that very morning. 16 years was a long time to spend in Hell. Spending the days being drilled on being holy and good, spending the nights shoved against the floor while one of his superiors thrust into him with harsh roughness on the small boy's tender skin.

The memory of Hellgate was enough to make him want to live in this shithole, this dump, this place of the devil.

Suddenly Amsterdam was shoved from behind, causing him to cry out with surprise and sending him sprawling to the floor.

"Well .you still got one thing to learn. You ain't never go into my house," a deep voice growled in a strong New York accent from behind him, making Amsterdam's blood run cold. Where had he heard that voice before? Something clicked in his brain as he tried to place the voice, the presence. Amsterdam's eyes widened and heart started to pound as he felt the cold sharp edge of a knife slide across the side of his neck. He could feel hot breath on his skin, sending chills down his spine. Something tickled his ear.

"Now you gonna give me your tools, my dear friend, or you're neck is gonna look like I thought you was my breakfast," the voice growled calmly into Amsterdam's ear. He felt a large hand on his back; it ran down the length of him slowly, over his buttocks, down his left thigh.

Amsterdam grunted in surprise as he felt the beginning of an erection. "I ain't got nothing," he said hoarsely. He felt a hand grab his arm roughly, fingers pressing, bruising the skin as he was flipped over, his eyes peered up tentatively.

A large man was crouched over him. He had a glass eye, Amsterdam could tell this because only one of his eyes moved, the left eye seemed to stay fixed on some far-away object that no one else could see. His raven-black hair was welled oiled, as was his moustache that was now stretched across his face in a not-quite-friendly grin. He smelled like pipe-tabacco and whiskey.

The man chuckled, raising his black eyebrow, which was cut through diagonally with a scar. "You are a pretty thing, aren't you? What's your name, boyo?" The man said, his eye looking straight into Amsterdam's, their icy gazes meeting. He was still pinning Amsterdam to the floor.

"Amsterdam, sir." Amsterdam could feel the man's awful breath on his face.

The man snarled. "Amsterdam? What kind of a half-baked Mick would name his brood Amsterdam? Well, all the same, they call me Bill. The Butcher. Now, if you come to my house to rob me like a coward, Amsterdam, you gonna learn one thing. I respect the respectable. I honor the honorable. And I kill the cowards. You got it?" Bill moved his face down toward Amsterdam's, so their shiny noses were just touching. Bill drilled his good eye into Amsterdam's, allowing him to see the fierce rage that burned inside him, his eye was an endless pit, leading to Hell.

Amsterdam swallowed hard, scared and excited at the same time of having a man so full of rage so close to him, hot breath warming his neck. "Sir, I ain't come to rob you," Amsterdam's voice shook. "I'm new in the Points. I didn't realize this was your place sir."

Bill sensed the fear in Amsterdam, and also the arousal. He casually sat back up, still on top of Amsterdam's legs, and felt down his torso, to his lower areas, running his rough hands over his trousers. Chills ran down Amsterdam's spine as Bill touched his stiff penis through his trousers. Amsterdam let out a low moan. He had never felt so good in such a dangerous situation. The pleasure shuddered through his body.

"You like that, don't you Amsterdam," Bill smirked, rubbing him a little more.

Suddenly Bill struck Amsterdam with a hard fist on his nose. "You ain't NEVER go into my house!" Bill bellowed, baring his sharp yellow teeth at Amsterdam, whose nose was bleeding. Amsterdam blinked, heart pounding hotly, surprised by the sudden blow. He looked at the eye, stared into the eagle, and felt his own blood run thickly down his chin from his nose.

Something broke inside Amsterdam. The rage that had built up inside the pit of his stomach was released through his fist. He returned the punch, hitting the Butcher squarely in the jaw. Bill recoiled from the blow, and then started beating on Amsterdam, who fought back with equal force.

They struggled together like this, writing and grunting. Bill stuck two fingers in Amsterdam's mouth, and began to pull, splitting his lip. Amsterdam bit down hard on the fingers. "Arrrgghhhh!" Bill gritted his teeth.

His fingers were still in Amsterdam's mouth. Amsterdam looked Bill in the eye and slowly lifted his bite, off of his fingers. The house was silent, but for the sound of the heavy breathing. Amsterdam was turned on by Bill's dominating nature. His hands loosened slightly from Bill's neck. Bill understood. His expression turned from a grimace to a sly stare. Amsterdam tasted the salty fingers, as Bill moved the fingers in and out of Amsterdam's hot mouth.

The Butcher wasted no time. He quickly undid Amsterdam's trousers, pulled them down around his knees, both men breathing roughly. He ran his hands over Amsterdam's bare skin, now slick with sweat. He brushed his fingertips through Amsterdam's dark pubic hair. Amsterdam moaned, begging him to go on. He loved the feeling of Bill's large hands on his private parts, fingernails scraping.

The Butcher took Amsterdam's cock in his mouth, and flicked his tongue at it. Bill knew what Amsterdam liked. Amsterdam's face was crimson, sweat trickled down his temple. It was such a delicious feeling, the Butcher's hot mouth on his penis making him shudder with pleasure. Bill promptly bit down hard, his sharp teeth scraping and stabbing the most sensitive area. Amsterdam screamed, and grabbed Bill's head, and tried to pull Bill's head off of him. Bill held on, which only caused more pain for Amsterdam.

And what pain it was. Tears sprung to Amsterdam's eyes as he struggled, he gritted his teeth and his hands were in tight fists. He pulled Bill's raven black oiled hair, but it was too greasy, and didn't affect Bill's hold on Amsterdam's distressed cock.

Amsterdam couldn't take the pain anymore. It burned his body like hot coals. He had nothing to use as a weapon, his knife was in his trousers, which were around his knees at this point. "Bill!" He cried, his voice hoarse.


End file.
